


Uncut Wood

by Cobalt_Mystic (Heavenly_Bodies)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Jossverse
Genre: Community: fall_for_sx, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-25 01:26:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heavenly_Bodies/pseuds/Cobalt_Mystic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These hands broke him, as surely as they rebuilt him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uncut Wood

**Author's Note:**

> “…know the raw silk; hold the uncut wood. Need little, want less. Forget the rules. Be untroubled.” Ursula K. LeGuin’s beautiful translation of Lao Tzu’s _Tao Te Ching_ Book 1, Verse 19
> 
> Originally posted on LJ, Nov. 24th, 2008 for LJ comm: fall_for_sx

*********

Spike traced the contours of his lover’s hand. Tracing head line, heart line, and life line. Skitting along the edges of each finger. Memorizing every callous and cut, every scar, no matter how small.

He loved these strong workman’s hands. Hands that spent their days creating, giving shape and meaning to lifeless objects- the irony of that wasn’t lost on the vampire. These beautiful hands so warm to his cool touch. They held so much passion, even when they touched in anger. His lover’s hands, liken to the rest of him, harboured such immense power, and when it was released the fire of the Furies held less potency.

Years spent using these powerful hands to protect and defend, and still they were the truest, purest things Spike had ever known, and he knew these hands, knew them better than he knew his own. He knew how they moved, how they felt- working his flesh with sure firm strokes interspersed with delicate feathered explorations. He knew the way they moulded to his body, cascading over his flesh like a slow Summer brook.

These were the hands that held him with such tender compassion when the nightmares came. Hands that promised comfort and safety with their touch. A touch so familiar, burnt into his memory and his skin long before they became lovers.

In the wee hours of the morning, when the orange and purple filaments of day had just begun their inevitable encroachment on the darkness and he felt most vulnerable, most alone that these hands first marked him. They hadn’t marked him as so many others had with bruises or blood or hate, but with serenity.

Tied to that damnible chair, a helpless lump of dead flesh thrashing impotently against the ghosts and terrors of his mind. Then a hand, not caressing or squeezing, just laying a softly against his cool skin. In that moment he loved and hated the hand, the boy, the warmth in equal measure. He loved the security it gave him and hated the vulnerability he obviously showed. He loved the connection and hated that it should be his _food_. He loved the comfort and hated that he needed it.

These hands broke him, as surely as they rebuilt him. He kissed each finger, worshipping the hands and the man who gave meaning to his lifeless form.


End file.
